Be Mine?
by SuGaRLiLy
Summary: Every Valentine's Day, we always hear about the sappy lovey stories. Here is a collection of untold Valentine's Day stories from various HP characters that aren't so sappy. Includes Snape, Neville, Luna, and Lavender.
1. Snape

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. All of them belong to the magnificent JKR. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: So, it's getting close to that time of year again…February 14th. We were talking in my Health class about how all of us were single and I just kind of got this idea to talk about what the HP characters all thought about Valentine's Day. We always get the sappy Lily and James stories, the sappy Harry and Ginny stories—just sappy stories in general. Well, here are a few Valentine's Day stories that you _haven't_ heard. Of course, we're starting out with Snape…

**A Sham**

For one day a year, everyone goes certifiably insane. I am quite sure that I, alone, remain sound of mind and heart during February fourteenth—the most ridiculous holiday ever contrived by man. I alone see this holiday for the farce it is.

I watch them every year, melting over frilly cards, working themselves into a frenzy in the never-ending quest for the Perfect Gift, stealing kisses in the corridors, writing love notes when they should be brewing potions, all this I see, and it makes me ill. I become physically ill watching all of them. Do they not all see the grand sham that they play at? Surely, I think, one of them must realize. I pray that at least one among their number is cognizant of the sheer absurdity of validating one's love with chocolates and pink paper hearts, of pretending to love unconditionally for just one day, of raising hopes to crush them.

Perhaps this is just the bitter cynicism of a man who has never had a Valentine—though not for lack of trying. No, I have never had a sweetheart to profess my love to, to buy chocolates for, or to steal kisses from. As I've grown older, I have stifled any and all urges for the pleasure of anyone's company. I am quite secure in knowing that I need no one.

Of course, I was not always like this. As a younger child of perhaps maybe twelve or thirteen years, I myself had certain feelings for one of my peers. I can see her face clearly in my mind's eye, though her name escapes my recollections. She was quite pretty and very kind, always willing to lend me her notes from History of Magic, and was one of the few who would smile or say hello to me in the corridors. I am denied the knowledge of what possessed me to reveal my affections for her on Valentine's Day, but for weeks and weeks prior to that dreaded date, I plotted and schemed, desperately searching for the perfect words to say and the most beautiful gift to give. I was a silly fool then.

On that day, I readied myself and walked up to her holding a bouquet of roses that I had convinced an older student to conjure up for me. She smiled at me, already anticipating what I had to say. I poured my heart out to her, certain that she would collapse into my arms at any given moment. Instead she shook her head and smiled again, but sadly this time, and took my hand and kissed my cheek. She shoved the bouquet back into my outstretched hand, saying she was allergic, but thanking me for the sentiment.

Looking back on this, I am inclined to perceive her as being one of the intelligent ones, for surely had she lied and accepted my speech and my gift, it would have been more damaging to me than being honest. At least, this is what I tell myself when I allow my thoughts to stray to her.

I have long since accepted that I will never be the handsome princely hero that I so longed to be as a child. I know that I am doomed to be the unwelcoming, evil villain who sends people scurrying without as much as a word or contorted facial expression. I also know that the fairy princess never does end up loving the evil villain. Thus, I will never be left with anyone in the end, no matter how long the delusion lasts.

I will sit here, as I have every day, and as I suppose I will for many more days to come, sipping at a goblet filled with wine. I will not eat chocolates. I will not conjure up pink and purple and red paper hearts. I will not declare my love to one who does not know I even walk upon the face of this earth. I will sit here, toasting myself, as I drink more and more elderflower wine. I will praise myself for seeing through the transparency of the day. I will scorn the day until the ticking of the clock pushes me beyond midnight, and then, I will retire, and fall into an untroubled sleep, my senses dulled and my mind numb.

Happy Valentine's Day.


	2. Neville

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters: everything belongs to the magnificent JKR.

A/N: Here's another one-shot of an unheard Valentine's Day story. I hope you all enjoyed reading Snape's because I certainly enjoyed writing it. This next one made me really sad while I was writing it. Without further ado, I give you…Neville.

**A Memory**

Whenever February fourteenth rolls around, I do not find myself overcome by thoughts of love and hearts and cupids. I don't eat little heart-shaped chocolates or send cards to anyone. I don't buy flowers or wish that I had a special someone of my own. Honestly, I do not object to buying flowers or sending cards or any of that. I actually believe that the sentiment behind the day is right. I don't mind chocolates and I am not physically repulsed by the sight of hearts and cupids or by the talk of love. In fact, I wish that I had a special girl in my life. No, in truth, I am so unconcerned with these things because I spend my Valentine's Day consumed with thoughts of them. Who are 'they', you might ask? Well, 'they' are my two special someones—my parents.

It's simple to explain, really. See, Valentine's Day was their wedding anniversary. It was _their_ day. This is the only day that I allow myself to think about them and _only_ them. On this day, after making sure that I am quite alone and will remain undisturbed, I open my trunk and dig to the bottom where I keep my shoebox full of special things. Inside is a picture of my mum and dad on their wedding day. I like to look at it to remind myself that they were once happy. My mum is all rosy-cheeked and smiling. She looks beautiful in her long white dress, her hair all done up and her eyes bright and twinkling. My dad looks handsome, strong, and young. Even Gran looks happier than I ever see her now.

I remember a time very long ago that might not be so much a memory as it is a dream. My family was whole and unharmed. I sat on a cool tiled floor banging pots and pans together as mum and dad looked on and laughed with me. My mother says my name. "Neville", she says sweetly, her voice full of laughter. I wish that I could turn time back to that happier day. I wish that I could live in that day for the rest of my life.

As I look at their picture again, I become angry because their happiness was to be robbed from them, and they didn't even know it. Everything they had and everything they knew was stolen from them in one moment. They once loved each other unconditionally, and now I don't believe that they can even recognize each other anymore. It's cruel—crueler than them being dead and gone from me, and from each other, because at least if they hadn't survived, I wouldn't be forced to see what they have become. Each time Gran and I go to visit mum and dad, I become more and more certain that they have no recollections of me whatsoever, that they know neither my name nor my relationship to themselves. It's okay though. I still love them, and I tell them so whenever I see them. I tell them over and over, even though they never say anything in reply.

I have never told anyone about them before. The main reason is that I don't really like sharing my special memory of them with anyone. I don't even tell Gran. Though, it's also because I am too afraid that people will laugh at me- that they'll laugh because I'm the boy with crazy parents, or they'll laugh because I refuse to let them go. I know they would sneer, mock, deride my feelings and my parents. I couldn't bear to let them be talked about, as though their story was a mildly interesting article featured in **The Quibbler**.

At the same time, I don't want anyone's pity or false sympathy. You know, the kind you can see in people's eyes, the kind where you know that everyone is thinking that _you're_ the sad, pathetic one. Still, I refuse to accept anyone's compassion. No one knows what it is like to have parents who cannot even recognize you. There are no words in any language apt enough to describe it. I would not wish it upon even the most hated person on the face of this earth.

I guess the real reason why I refuse to celebrate Valentine's Day is because I refuse to let February fourteenth be about anything but the two of them. No one else, maybe not even Gran, seems to remember or know or care that this day should have been about _their_ love. _My_ love. For them. For us.

I cannot send them cards or flowers or chocolates, but these things would be meaningless to them, anyway. What I can do is to crawl into my bed at night and to silently wish them "Happy Anniversary". I can silently and futilely pray that they get better. I can pray with all my heart and soul, as I did when I was a child. I believed that my prayers would come true back then. Still, I can't bring myself to not pray and hope and wish for them.

I ask that they get better, even just a little bit. Even if it's just so that they remember my name. Even if it's just so that they can say "I love you" back. Even if it's just once.


	3. Luna

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters! All credit should be directed towards the fabulous J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: So while I was in Health class and we were supposed to be talking about divorce, I thought up my next installment to this nifty little series. I wanted to do one that wasn't so depressing. This one was actually really amusing to write, even though I should definitely be doing my history essay right now. Anyway, my logical conclusion was to write one on Luna. Enjoy!

**An Illness**

I don't believe in Valentine's Day. My father and I both know that it is only the Minister of Magic's façade for his covert operation to take over the minds and hearts of millions of unsuspecting citizens for one day a year using the mysterious and elusive Dundledee. We think that it is only fair that you are aware, too. Of course, no one was sure if the Dundledee even existed, until my father and I discovered it, that is. No one has ever seen a live one, but my father and I have found dead ones in our backyard. We published an article in our magazine to share the truth with the world. I think people really need to know the risk they are taking by getting involved in this Valentine's Day business.

Dundledees are tiny creatures about the size and shape of a wasp. They are primarily purplish in color and have tiny gold colored wings, though dad and I have found both silver and bronze variations. Instead of a wasp's stinger, they have suction cup-like appendages on the bottoms of their feet. They don't make a humming sound, so you can't even swat them away if you hear them coming. I know most of you must be quivering in fear and, considering the implications, I don't blame you in the slightest.

Anyway, what well-trained Dundledees will do is to use their wings to propel themselves up your nostrils. It happens so quickly, that you don't even notice it, which is part of the reason why the Minister is so keen on using them for his tyrannical mind-control purposes. After they get into your nose, they make their way up to your brain, the center of the nervous system. Using their little suction cup feet, they attach themselves to the outer membrane of your brain tissue and transmit messages to your body. This process is really very disturbing, and not for the faint of heart, so I won't bother you with describing that here. If you _are_ interested in how exactly Dundledees transmit messages to your brain and body, you can pick up a copy of next month's **Quibbler**. It should be one of the feature articles. The transmission of messages from the Dundledee to ones brain causes the severe condition of acute _Amoritis_. Its symptoms include lovesickness, excessive feelings of lust, compulsive desire to buy expensive things for significant others, dry mouth, sneezing, vomiting, seizures, comas, and, in some cases, death.

Those of you who are skeptics out there might be wondering exactly _why_ the Minister would want to control people's minds on February fourteenth. Well, it's quite easy to explain. The Minister and several other highly trained, highly trusted Dundledee Handlers teach the Dundledees to transmit messages that induce intense feelings of love and infatuation. These Dundledees are then dispersed throughout England. They can be found inside flower bouquets, in chocolate boxes, lodged into card envelopes, and even lurking on expensive jewelry. Of course, because everyone is so thoroughly obsessed with purchasing gifts and courting each other, the Minister has time to take care of many unsavory things that would not go unnoticed if everyone was sane and in the right frame of mind. Of course he takes advantage of this time by massacring whole towns of goblins, boiling half-breeds alive, and assassinating cartload after cartload of Muggles. I have also heard rumors that he puts on dresses and walks amongst the townspeople at Hogsmeade dressed completely in women's clothing. This is just a rumor though.

Thankfully, the use of the Dundledee is impractical due to the fact that your body becomes susceptible to _Amoritis_ for only one day a year. This day happens to be February fourteenth. However, once infected by a Dundledee, you will most certainly succumb to _Amoritis_ every February fourteenth. The only way to possibly prevent an outbreak is to have something tragic happen to you, as these negative feelings counteract the effect of the chemicals that the Dundledee releases in your brain. Unfortunately, the results only last for that one year.

You might not believe me. You might laugh, scoff, or think that I am just plain mad, but I have seen the degenerative effects that this illness has had upon my classmates and my close friends. I feel that it is my grave responsibility to reveal the _truth_ about Valentine's Day to you.

You have been warned. Remember what I have told you. Remember me next time you go to open that card, sample those foreign gourmet chocolate truffles, try on that expensive piece of jewelry, or sniff that exotic bouquet, and think twice. Don't take this warning lightly, because you, yes, you may be next.


	4. Lavender

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Every single last one of them belongs to the magnificent, amazing J.K. Rowling, whose brain I wish I could steal.

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day to everyone out there—or Happy S.A.D.'s Day if any of you out there are celebrating that. Hope you've enjoyed reading this so far. It's coming to a close though. Let me know what you think. Without further ado, I give you the final installment of "Be Mine?" with… Lavendar.

**A Contest**

I bounce out of bed and triple-check my calendar to verify the date. It is outlined with little pink and red hearts. I glance around the dorm. Parvati's bed is vacant; she must have already started getting prepared, too. There's a reason why she's my best friend. On the other hand, I notice Hermione Granger, is still sound asleep in her bed, snoring softly, a bit of drool slipping out of the side of her mouth. Honestly, she should just try to care. I mean, its not that she's unfortunate looking. She's just weird. Her priorities are just all out of whack. I'm sure that if she fixed her hair like she did for the Yule Ball and maybe _opened_ her eyes when she got dressed in the morning, she would look perfectly decent, indeed, and that she would be sure to receive at least a few valentines.

Pulling my thoughts away from Hermione Granger, of _all _people, I brush my hair as I consider the importance of looking flawless on today of all days.

Not that I don't look flawless on any other day, but…

Today I _have_ to look flawless. It is of the utmost necessity. It's Valentine's Day, the one day of the year more important than Christmas, Halloween, and New Year's all rolled into one. I make different faces in the mirror, trying to figure out which one makes me look prettiest, while still conveying surprise. I pretend to accept Valentine's from various admirers, smiling and waving. After playing at that for a few minutes I check my watch. Satisfied with my hair and robe choice for the day, I sit down on my bed to wait, taking care to not crease my robes.

Timing is everything. I don't want to go down to breakfast early, in case I appear overeager and over-expectant. Going down too late would be a disaster of its own, though. People would miss the spectacle of me receiving all of my Valentine's, after all!

After about a quarter of an hour, I decide the timing is right. I make my way down to the Great Hall and sit directly in the center of the Gryffindor table, pretending to eat my breakfast just like everyone else in the Hall. When I hear the rustling of wings and the hooting of hundreds upon hundreds of owls, I refrain from looking up at the ceiling. It would be extremely unbecoming of me to gawk, especially since I haven't had the opportunity to come up with an attractive facial expression for that. It is significantly more difficult to turn something like gawking into anything remotely appealing. I push aside my half-picked at bowl of porridge in preparations for my mail. I don't want any of my mail to get dirty, and I certainly don't want any mail in my breakfast. Gifted with a few years of practice, I know to only look up when I hear owls flying directly overhead. As I look toward the ceiling, I am greeted by the sight of many envelopes spiraling their way down towards me. I feel as though I am encased in a beautiful snow globe, except, instead of fake snow or confetti or glitter flying down at me, gusts of red, purple, white, and pink envelopes flutter down and come to a rest on the table in front of me. I don't open them right away. Again, I remind myself that it is important not to appear overeager. I place them all into a neat pile, waiting until the last one has fallen, before I even dare to tear the corner off of the first red envelope. Every single one is different. My name is written a thousand different ways; "Lavendar" in calligraphy, chicken scratch, script, block letters, print. I love each one. Some are bought and some are handmade. Some are heavily perfumed with cologne and others shine and dance with glitter. I read them all, every last one. I sigh, I smile, and I laugh at every single one I open, at each profession of love, at each kindly lettered word, all for the benefit of my audience, of course.

After breakfast, I arrange them into another pile and tuck them lovingly into my bag. It is only in the privacy of my own dorm on my bed with the hangings drawn around me do I allow myself to count the tokens of love, the declarations, the pleas, the poems. I tally them up.

Eighty-nine.

That's much more than Padma received, I'm sure. I remind myself to tell her, just in passing, about my Valentine's. I would be mildly annoyed if either her or Parvati managed to amass more tokens of affection than I. I reflect to myself as I add this year's batch to my ever-growing collection, tying all of them together securely with a long piece of red ribbon. The funny thing is that I don't even know half of these boys that send me letters. I don't know their names. I don't know how old they are, what they look like, or which house they're in. I don't know if they're gentlemen, creeps, pranksters, athletes, or nerds. I don't know one single thing about them. Not one.

The funnier thing is I don't care. To me, it's all about the numbers.


End file.
